


Deal With The Devil

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Typical Horror, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Gambling, Getting Together, Light-Hearted, M/M, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, The Web - Freeform, set in season 2 but contains spoilers to season 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26577661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Elias clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, closing his laptop and clasping his hands together on his desk. “Well,” he sighs, “I suppose as long as you don’t investigate alone and keep me updated, there shouldn’t be any issues with attempting to follow up on Ms Blaire.” He watches as Jon seems to perk up, his shoulders visibly relaxing - if only slightly. “But I cannot have you getting injured… though if you do happen to meet Ms Blaire, injuries will be the least of your worries.”--In 2007, Mason O'Reilly made a statement regarding a game of roulette and a woman named Magdalene Blaire.In 2017, Jon finds himself investigating his statement, Elias finds himself reacquainted with someone he'd rather avoid, and everyone is - perhaps literally - strung along for the ride.
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Jonah Magnus & Original Female Character(s), Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Rosie/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	1. A Statement

**Author's Note:**

> Helloo!! I've wanted to write this fic for a while and I'm really excited about it!! I know the tags seem contradictory, but don't worry, it'll all make sense as the fic progresses! Please note that there are some warnings that apply to this fic, and I will post them at the start of each chapter. Some tags are subject to change, but I've included the main ones I need for now.
> 
> I'm aiming to update this fic weekly, though I can't make any promises with college starting again. If you have any questions or just wanna chat, you can hmu on [tumblr](snapdraqons.tumblr.com) or on [twitter](twitter.com/snappdraqons)!! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic!! Please leave comments+kudos if you do!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:
> 
> -Gambling  
> -Financial difficulties  
> -Arachnophobia  
> -Manipulation  
> -Lack of control/helplessness  
> -Being watched  
> -Mentions of suicide

_**2017** _

“...Statement of Mason O’Reilly, regarding a game of roulette. Original statement given November 28th, 2007. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. 

Statement begins.

I feel like I should preface this by saying: I am not a gambler. Prior to this, the only bets I’ve made have been small, insignificant ones: “I bet you ten quid Sheila will be sloshed by midnight”, “I bet I can beat you home, loser pays for dinner” - that sort of thing. I’d not once stepped foot in a betting shop, not that I have much interest in sports in the first place, and have never quite seen the appeal of risking any amount of money for something so… well, risky. Even when my brother splashed out on taking us all to Vegas after he was promoted, I didn’t make a single bet, didn’t take part in a single round of cards or game of roulette. I’ve never even bought a lottery ticket.

It’s not that I’m an unlucky person. I just am not, and never have been, a gambler.

Though I suppose what I’m about to tell you might cause… some disbelief in that statement.

You see, in July last year, I attended a school reunion. It had been ten years since I’d completed my A-Levels and I had been popular enough as a teenager that there had been no reason _not_ to go. My fiancee, Penny, had work the next day, so she offered to stay at home and look after the twins while I went out and enjoyed myself. I said it would be no problem to hire a babysitter or get my brother to look after them, but she’d insisted. I know - and had known at the time - that she mostly wanted to avoid any awkward encounters with anyone she didn’t know, but I wish I had pestered her just a bit more. Having someone with me might have stopped it from happening.

The group running the reunion - the ex-head students - had hired out a function room in a hotel not far from the school, complete with a bar and a buffet. It had been a more expensive event than I’d expected, but nothing about it had been particularly out of the ordinary. I had a few drinks, caught up with some old friends and, for the first half of the evening, had a perfectly pleasant time. At about nine o’clock, a few hours into the reunion, I left the building to have a cigarette and ended up chatting with one of the ex-head students who had organised the event - Catherine, I think her name was. She asked me about my family, about my fiancee and my upcoming wedding that had been due to take place the following March. She asked about my kids, how my job had been going, if I had any plans to go on holiday over the summer. You know, usual small talk stuff. 

And then, Catherine had asked if I needed any help.

I was, of course, confused at first, and she laughed as she’d put out her cigarette and placed the butt in an ashtray and explained, “Kids can be expensive. Weddings too. Do you have enough money to pay for all that.” For a moment I was slightly offended at her words; how dare she imply such a thing to someone she barely knew? But then she asked, “Have you ever played roulette?” not giving me a chance to respond. “It’s pretty easy to get the hang of, Mason. You could still win even if it’s your first time.”

I opened my mouth to respond to what she said, but by the time a word had formed on my lips she was already disappearing back inside. 

It took me a moment to process what had just happened, and by the time I made the decision to follow Catherine back inside to confront her, I was completely alone on the patio. Still, it wouldn’t be too hard to find her - there were only a hundred or so guests - so I re-entered the hotel and began to make my way back to the function room. When I entered, however, I was not met by the ex-students, making awkward conversation around tables in small groups, but by something else entirely.

The tables had, in the ten minutes that I’d spent outside, been cleared away, save for one in the centre of the room. The crowd had parted, creating an aisle leading from the door to the table, which their eyes were transfixed on. Catherine stood just behind the table, glassy-eyed and completely still, her gaze seeming to pass right through me as I said her name. In front of her, there was a woman I didn’t recognise, sat in one of two chairs pulled up to the table, tapping her fingers impatiently on the surface of it. She smiled, the only emotion present in anyone’s face, and gestured for me to approach.

I don’t know why I did. In fact, I swear that I didn’t. I don’t remember making the conscious decision to move forward, to move my legs and take a step toward the table. And yet, I found myself putting one foot in front of the other, approaching the table slowly but surely - despite not once wanting to do so. At first, I felt as if the crowd was watching me, but as I walked past them - again, without ever actually wanting to - I soon realised that, like Catherine, their stares were empty and vacant, eyes focused on some unnamed point in the room. Their lips were curled into smiles, parted as if half-way through a sentence, but they were all dead silent and completely still. As if they were just there for decoration, as set dressing rather than people. Though perhaps the strangest thing of all about the crowd of unmoving, unblinking people, were the spiders. They hung from the ceiling, crawled over their clothes, their skin, their faces, weaving their webs between fingers and around joints. I remember looking up, following the pathway of the silk up to the ceiling, and thinking: _like puppets on a string._

I sat down at the table, without any conscious volition, and the woman opposite me tilted her head to one side in mock curiosity, her smile somehow warm and friendly despite the tense and uncomfortable atmosphere in the room. She held out her hand for me to shake, which I did - despite not trying to move my hand at all - and introduced herself to me as Magda. She didn’t give me a surname, and I certainly didn’t recognise her from school. I’d never seen her before that moment and I couldn’t possibly tell you who she was. As I shook her hand, a spider crawled from under the sleeve of her blazer and over my wrist. I wanted to swat it away but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything but smile at the woman, the spider scuttling underneath my sleeve and up my arm, leaving a thin silver trail of web behind it. 

“He likes you,” the woman said, and I could only nod in agreement.

She introduced herself as Magda - no surname, no way of identifying her otherwise - before gesturing to the table in front of her. Before us, a game of roulette had been set up; a faded green roulette mat was accompanied by a large, battered roulette wheel, covered in dust and laced with the same interlocking spider’s silk that now wrapped around my arm. I felt sick, my stomach twisting in knots as Magda opened a briefcase and emptied several piles of chips onto the table. But still, all I could do was smile and nod in agreement as she laid out the rules for the game: a regular game of roulette, American style, with chips worth £50 and no bidding limits. Catherine would act as the croupier to ensure a fair game, and Magda assured me that, no matter what I might think, the game was not rigged.

I had never played roulette before then, nor did I particularly understand the rules. Still, when she asked me how many chips I’d like, I confidently asked for twenty - a thousand pounds in total - and pulled them close to me with a protectiveness I had never felt before.

No words were exchanged as Catherine dropped the small metal ball into the roulette wheel, and the two of us placed our bets. I didn’t know what I was doing and had no intention of doing it, and yet my fingers picked up a stack of chips and began placing them across the mat. My hand moved, as if pulled by a string, and I watched in horror as I carefully placed five chips in the corners of the bottom right numbers and eight more on black. 

Six hundred and fifty pounds. Money that I didn’t have on me and I couldn’t afford to lose - not with my wedding coming up in less than a year. Sure, I could win the money back, but somehow I knew, as I watched my hand return to my side, that I had no say in the matter.  
I was going to lose, whether I liked it or not.

Magda placed her bets - five chips on the second third and five split between 17 and 18. Her smile was warm and friendly, and a spider crawled over her chips as she put them down atop the table. I just watched, willing myself to move, to leave, to call off the game and retain what little control I could possibly have left. But I didn’t. I waited patiently as Catherine announced that no more bets would be accepted and the roulette wheel was spun.

It felt like a lifetime, sitting there, watching the old wooden wheel go round and round and round, the metal ball inside it catching the dim light as it danced over the numbers, over and over and over and over until finally, _finally,_ it began to slow down. My eyes stayed glued to it, my body stiff despite how desperately I wanted to move, and I watched as slowly, gradually, certainly, the wheel came to a stop and the ball stayed fixed in one position beside a number.

_18._

The split bet she made won seventeen times what she’d paid. My own had only lost me six hundred and fifty pounds.

Magda laughed to herself, a soft giggle that carried far too much innocence for someone who had just watched her completely unwilling opponent lose over six-hundred pounds.

“Better luck next time, Mason,” she said, and I smiled so hard my face hurt.

I didn’t stop smiling when I went all in the next round, and only laughed when Magda commented how brave I was for doing so, her voice sugary sweet despite the clear malicious intentions behind every move made - whether those moves were her own or mine.

The next round the ball landed on 20, and I managed to win back some of the chips I had bet, while Madga doubled hers.

The next round the ball landed on 0. Magda’s chips were placed half on two and half on zero. I lost all I had bet.

The next round the ball landed on 25. Magda had placed a corner bet, and I only won back four chips by betting on odd.

The next round the ball landed on 14. Magda won back five times the bet she’d placed. As Catherine collected the last of my chips, I begged her for more, my mouth moving and my voice sounding out words entirely of its own accord. And all the time Magda smiled, the spiders crawling over her winnings as if taunting me, bringing my attention to an injustice I was unable to point out no matter how much I wanted to.

We played again.

Magda won. I barely made back half of what I’d bet.

We played again.

Magda won, and I watched and congratulated her with a smile.

We played again.

Magda won, and I only laughed sheepishly as I asked to buy more chips.

We played again.

Magda won, and I felt my stomach turn as a spider spun its web around my hand, wrapping round and round my fingers until my turn to bet came around once more.

We played again.

Magda won, and I couldn’t stop myself from asking for one more round, just one more chance, I’ll get it this time, I’ll win, give me one more chance and I’ll make that money back, I just _know it._

There were nearly thirty rounds played in total. I never counted them - at least, I never made the conscious decision to - but I distinctly remember the horrible, sugar-coated smile Magda gave me each time I lost, the way she tilted her head to the side in mock pity and the spiders continued to crawl over the table, weaving their webs over my hands and around my arms. The whole time I could only sit still, watching in silence unless some unknown force made me place my bets or open my mouth to make a light-hearted joke about how I’d just lost another five hundred pounds. As much as I wanted to run, something - or maybe some _one_ \- was keeping me there, making me play game after game after game no matter how many times I lost. There was no rush to it. There was no feeling of excitement, no adrenaline pumping through my veins that made me stay at that table. I felt none of the anticipation I’d heard others say they experience when gambling. There was no reason to keep going other than the fact that I just couldn’t stop.

I don’t know what time it was when the game finally ended. I know that the sky outside was pitch black and my head was starting to ache from tiredness, though my eyes refused to close. I watched Catherine pull away the last of my chips, having lost yet another round, and the unknown force once again made me open my mouth to ask to buy more. But before I could there was a horrible scraping noise, like nails on a chalkboard, as Magda slowly pushed her chair backwards and got to her feet with a sigh.

“I’m bored,” she told me, “I’ll let Catherine sort out the financial side of things… In the meantime, I do hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.” She ran a hand through her hair before pushing her chair neatly under the table. “I hope we’ll get to gamble again soon, Mason,” she said with a smile, and I could only stare at the space where she sat as she left the venue, the click of her heels somehow echoing in the busy room as she made her way to the door.

I didn’t go home. Well, I must have gone home - I woke up on the sofa in the living room of my flat - but I have no memory of ever leaving the reunion, of getting up from that table and consciously putting one foot in front of the other and making my way out of the venue. I just remember opening my eyes to the cracked ceiling of my living room and the sound of my fiancee calling my name.

I don’t think I need to tell you the rest, but I will anyway. A few days after the reunion, I received a bank statement that said I’d overdrawn by nearly ten thousand pounds - and that I had, at some point between leaving the party and waking up, verified this transaction. When I told Penny what had happened she struggled to understand - not that I can blame her - and our wedding was pushed back three months, then six, then called off entirely. I spent that time desperately trying to make that money back; I took on a second job, then a third, I sold half my possessions, I took out loans only to find myself in even deeper debt than before. Of course, no-one believed me when I said I hadn’t been in control that evening, that someone, or something, else had been controlling my every move. They didn’t believe me about the spiders either. 

I see them, every so often. The same ones from that night, I swear, scuttling over the floorboards of my new apartment, the one I moved into after Penny kicked me out. They don’t do anything, though I can’t help but feel like they’re mocking me. Catherine, though, I never saw again and Magda… I try not to think about her. She is, after all, the reason why all this happened. 

I’m scared of spiders now. Scared of gambling, too. I can’t even look at a scratchcard or lottery ticket without feeling sick. I suppose to a certain extent it serves me right, but I know, I just _know,_ that whatever happened that night was not my doing. 

I only hope you can believe me.

Statement ends.”

\--

Jon sighs, taking off his glasses and using them to push his hair out of his eyes. He turns off the tape recorder for a moment and rubs his temple, the feeling of eyes transfixed on him still present even after finishing the statement. He feels nauseous - not uncommon after reading a statement - but the spiders, the lack of control, the feeling of being puppeteered by someone or some _thing_ else feels too real, too _familiar_ for Jon to do anything but sit at his desk with a dry mouth and a knee that just _won’t stop shaking_.

He picks up his tea and takes a sip - it’s lukewarm and a little too strong for his liking, but it gives him something to do, something to focus on while he gathers his thoughts and composes himself before moving onto his notes. He takes a deep breath before turning the tape recorder back on.

“Unfortunately my notes on this statement are rather… lacking,” he explains, “Mr O'Reilly took his own life in 2009 and his ex-fiancee, Penny Guilbert, has explicitly stated that she wants nothing to do with the institute, her husband, or anything that he claims to have transpired that night - going so far as to threaten legal action if she’s contacted again. Of course, this statement is concerning - spiders and being controlled seem to pop up together in these statements a lot - but there’s something else that… needs addressing.

Despite being taken in 2007, this statement was, apparently, missing for several years. It was sent to the institute by mail no more than a week ago and while the envelope it came in is addressed to the institute as a whole, there was a note accompanying the statement specifically addressed to Elias. I haven’t read it, but something tells me if I want any more information on the whereabouts of this _Magda_ person, I'm going to have to cooperate with Elias…"

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose, clenching his fists on the table before he continues. 

"I'll give updates as this situation progresses," he says, "...End recording."

\--

Jon has always found Elias’ office to be… uncomfortable.

He supposes it's got something to do with keeping up appearances — academia isn't exactly a field where one can afford to seem messy or disorganised — but he still finds the Head of the Institute's office to be somewhat unwelcoming. There’s nothing particular about the room that’s especially off-putting, and everything in it - from the shelves of books on the esoteric to the carved mahogany desk that, supposedly, has been at the institute since the 1850s - is perfectly at home in the Head of the Institute’s office. Even the large oil painting of Jonah Magnus, which sits proudly in a gilded frame on the wall beside Elias’ desk, doesn’t seem _that_ out of place. It’s a perfectly normal room, all things considered, but something about that makes Jon uneasy. 

Maybe he’s just embarrassed, feels like he’s being mocked for the state of his _own_ working environment, which is disorganised, dusty and, up until a few months ago, had been filled with worms. Or maybe the room is _too_ normal; every item of furniture and piece of stationery is placed with such precision that it almost seems like an act, like a room pretending to be an office rather than actually being one. Even the wedding photo Elias keeps on his desk seems impersonal, placed facing away from him rather than towards him, as if trying to convince others that he does, in fact, have a husband.

Elias Knows this, and watches his Archivist over the top of his laptop as he takes a seat at his desk. “You wanted to see me?” he asks, and Jon nods.

“It’s about the O’Reilly statement,” he explains, “The note that came with it was addressed to you, and-”

“Oh, yes, I know what you’re talking about,” Elias smiles, taking the folded up note from the top drawer of his desk, “The reappearance of this statement is… certainly strange.”

Jon purses his lip. He’s stiff, paranoid, and he can’t quite maintain eye contact with his boss, wringing his hands together in his lap to busy them. “Should… should we be worried?” he asks. Elias shrugs.

“Perhaps,” he replies, pauses, then, “I take it you’d like to see the note?” He unfolds the piece of paper and hands it over to Jon, who thanks him under his breath as he takes it. The note itself isn’t particularly long and is scrawled on a piece of lined paper torn from a notebook in black biro. It isn’t signed and Jon’s brow furrows as he reads it, lips silently forming the words on the page before putting it down on the desk in front of him with a sigh.

“I don’t understand,” he says - a clear sign that Elias has more work to do if his Archivist is going to serve his god - “Do you know who it’s from?”

“Magdalene Blaire,” Elias explains, “I believe she was mentioned in the statement?”

Jon inhales sharply. “Yes.”

“Yes, that… seems like something she’d do,” he says, and the Archivist blinks in confusion.

“You… know her?”

“We’re... _acquainted_ , yes,” Elias muses, “Though we’re not exactly on good terms.”

“I see.” Jon goes back to wringing his hands together. He looks down, contemplating something as his eyes follow the intricate carvings in the red wood of his boss’ mahogany desk. Despite this information, he clearly still wants to know more - a good sign. Elias is patient, letting his Archivist think before asking his next question. “Do you think she’s… going to come here?”

Elias chuckles at this, shaking his head. “She’d be a fool if she did,” he says, “No, I doubt she’d actively seek out the institute in person. She knows where her strengths lie, and they’re certainly not _here_. If anything, the only thing she’s actively seeking out is me.”

Jon raises his brow. “You?” he asks, hesitates, then, “Are you two… _close_?”

Elias scoffs at this. “Certainly not,” he says, “But we do have… quite the history with each other."

"I see."

"Either way, I advise you _not_ to actively seek out Ms Blaire," he gives his Archivist a smile, a little too professional to be friendly, "I understand that you're still a little… _on edge_ after the whole worm situation, but if you are going to go out of your way to conduct your own research I ask that you do it on a different statement.”

Jon, as expected, seems disappointed at this. He purses his lips, absent-mindedly scratching at one of the pockmarks on his face that had appeared after Prentiss had attacked the archives. “If you’re sure,” he says, “I just… I feel like we should be keeping our guard up. Especially after the whole Prentiss… thing.” He’s a naturally curious person, even if he likes to deny it. As much as Elias would like to avoid any further contact with the Web (especially when his Archivist is yet to gain even half the marks required to carry out the Watcher’s Crown) he knows, low-case k, that Jon’s paranoia will only lead him to investigate behind his back.

Elias clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, closing his laptop and clasping his hands together on his desk. “Well,” he sighs, “I suppose as long as you don’t investigate alone and keep me updated, there shouldn’t be any issues with attempting to follow up on Ms Blaire.” He watches as Jon seems to perk up, his shoulders visibly relaxing - if only slightly. “But I cannot have you getting injured… though if you _do_ happen to meet Ms Blaire, injuries will be the least of your worries.”

Jon thanks him politely, and Elias dismisses him, Watching him through the eyes of the portrait on the wall as he leaves the room and carefully shuts the door behind him. 

His Archivist will investigate and he’ll keep Watch regardless, so it only makes sense to give him permission to do so. Of course, there’s now the matter of Magdalene Blaire to sort out; as long as the note she’s sent is, in fact, what Elias thinks it is, everything will go to plan and he, his Archivist and the Institute will all come out the other side unscathed. Even if it's not, he isn't about to allow a servant of the Web to be the cause of his downfall.

That would just be embarrassing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll (hopefully) update this in a week's time!! More characters will be in the next chapter!


	2. A Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:
> 
> \- season 2 typical paranoia.  
> \- smoking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so late!! idk if this fic is gonna have a strict schedule tbh, I'll probably just update it when i feel like it.  
> also, I've tried to be as accurate + respectful in writing jon's paranoia as possible and have had some help in doing so, but please let me know if any of it needs changing or improving!! thank you!!
> 
> As always, please leave comments and kudos if you enjoy this chapter!! it means a lot to me!! x

Elias sighs, watching his wine as he swirls it around in the glass. The note from Magda still sits in the breast pocket of his blazer, and he’s patiently waiting for Peter (who’s actually home for once) to notice him sighing and huffing so he can bring it up. It only takes half of dinner for his husband to finally say something, furrowing his brow and placing his fork down on his plate.

“Something’s bothering you,” he comments, somewhat unhelpfully, “You better not be thinking of another divorce. It’s only been a few years since the last one.” Elias can’t help but chuckle at this; it seems like he’s gotten predictable over the years, and in any other situation Peter would probably be right.

He shakes his head, taking a sip of his wine. “Not this time,” he says, “It’s something a bit more urgent than that.”

Peter raises his brow, his interest clearly piqued. “Oh?” he asks, “Do tell.”

At this, Elias reaches into his blazer pocket and takes out the note, unfolding it and pushing it towards Peter across the dinner table. The ink is slightly smudged around the creases of the paper, but it’s still perfectly readable -

_ ‘Elias,’  _ it says,

‘ _ I can’t believe it’s been over ten years since we last spoke. Isn’t that a shame? It’s been a while since I’ve faced any of your crowd, and I’m in the mood for a challenge. Or an extra fifty grand. I’m not sure which yet. Either way, I’ll be in London for the foreseeable future, so I might be seeing you soon!! Looking forward to it, asshole. Xoxo’ _

Peter reads the note, pinching the bridge of his nose. “When did you get this?” he asks. Elias shrugs.

“The letter arrived earlier this week,” he says, “But I only read it today. It came with a statement that’s been missing for a while - the one from 2007, I think I mentioned it.”

“The O’Reilly one?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” Peter grimaces, “Well, I’d rather  _ not  _ have to deal with Magda again. Last time she-”

“Emptied half your bank account in a single game of poker?”

“...That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”

Elias can’t help but let out a chuckle at this, watching as his husband frowns in annoyance, avoiding eye contact as he stabs a piece of potato rather aggressively with his fork. He continues to frown (one might even call it sulking, which looks most unbecoming on Peter’s face) as the two of them finish dinner, though Elias catches him rereading the note every once in a while, his grip on his cutlery tightening as his eyes scan over the words. Eventually, though, he finishes eating and passes the note back to his husband, letting out a sigh as he leans back in his chair.

“So?” he asks, and Elias raises an eyebrow.

“ _ So _ , what?”

“So are you going to, you know-” Peter waves his hand vaguely in the air, “See her?”

Elias shrugs. “I’m undecided,” he answers, “She knows she can’t win a game against me - the two of us are essentially even in terms of power. If it’s money she wants, I’m sure she can go after someone a little less…  _ skilled _ .” He makes a point of looking Peter up and down, and it’s clear that by ‘less skilled’, he means ‘not as manipulative’, ‘with more disposable income’ and ‘a servant of the Lonely’. Peter just rolls his eyes.

“I’m not playing against her again,” he says simply, “And if you want any funding from my family next year, you won’t let her make me either.”  _ That  _ seems to properly get Elias’ attention; he stiffens slightly, putting his wine glass down on the table a little too hard and pointing an accusatory finger at his husband. 

“You can’t punish me for your own shortcomings,” he says pointedly, “Besides, that’s a personal issue that’s entirely separate from our working relationship. If you want to hand over half your money to the Mother of Puppets, it should come out of your personal funds, not the institute’s.”

“You said that last time, too,” Peter muses, picking up his plate and getting to his feet, seemingly unperturbed by his husband’s outburst. “Unless you have anything useful to add, I’ll be heading off. I’ll be in the Lonely if you need m-”

“ _ Peter _ .” Elias gets to his feet too, cutting his husband off as he takes his plate into the kitchen. “You’re not just walking away from this one. It’s highly unlikely that Magda will actually get in the way, but if she does it could ruin  _ both  _ of our plans.”

That seems to get Peter’s attention and the thin layer of mist that swirls around his fingertips disappears as he turns back around to face Elias. “You really think so?” he asks, feigning incredulity. They both know that Elias would never allow such a thing to happen, but there’s no harm in being cautious. Better safe than sorry - especially when it comes to the Mother of Puppets. 

“I wouldn’t be telling you if I didn’t,” Elias says, “And I don’t think either of us want a repeat of last time.”

Peter rolls his eyes at this - though the action is not entirely malicious. “Of course,” he mutters, “I suppose you’ll want to make sure you can still get funding after our next divorce.”

“Obviously.” Elias leans up to peck him on the cheek as he places his plate in the sink, “What good is having a rich husband if I can’t milk him for all he’s worth, hm?”

Elias, of course, is not worried about Magda. Why would he be? After all, it isn’t like she can do much to  _ him;  _ when they gambled before the Beholding had evened the playing field, allowing him to See her every move and rendering her own powers practically useless. She’d learned her lesson a long, long time ago  _ not  _ to victimise him, and he’s confident that she knows better than to lose a gamble against him. Peter, on the other hand, is fair game to Magda. That’s what he’s scared about.

No, not scared.  _ Concerned. _

Elias watches him as he sleeps that night, laying as far away as possible on their shared bed as he always does. ‘ _ He’s always been weak,’ _ he thinks to himself, ‘ _ not so much as an avatar but as a man.’  _ Despite what he might say, Peter Lukas has always had a penchant for acting before thinking, for going out on a whim and getting involved in things he’d be better off leaving alone. He’s got a tendency to make gambles, both literal and metaphorical, where the odds are stacked against him and he’s almost certain to lose. It’s a nasty habit, one that not even the Forsaken can prevent him from having, but a strangely endearing one all the same.

Elias supposes their marriages have been one such gamble, though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy them. It’s never a question of  _ whether  _ they’ll last, rather one of  _ how long  _ they’ll last. They play their hands in the form of dates and proposals and lifeless weddings that are more of a performance than an act of love; then, eventually, one of them folds, signing the divorce papers and telling the other that they never want to see them again. It’s nothing more than a game to either of them. An oddly exhilarating one, yes, but a game all the same.

Magda, on the other hand, is a gamble Peter cannot afford to take again - let alone lose. He can only hope he’ll make the right decision when the time comes to it… that is, if he even has a say in the matter.

\--

Tim wrinkles his nose, putting down his mug of coffee and leaning back in his chair. “The O’Reilly statement?” he asks, “I thought you’d already done some follow up on that?”

Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. “I gave Elias a note that came with it,” he explained, “I hardly call that a follow-up.”

“Right.”

For a moment, Jon looks Tim up and down, trying to figure out by his body language if he’s hiding anything. He’s found himself doing that a lot lately: double-checking his coworkers’ every breath, every twitch of their fingers, every blink of their eyes, looking for something,  _ anything,  _ that might prove their guilt and justify his own paranoia. It only makes sense to constantly be on the lookout - it hasn’t been that long since the archives had been filled with worms and Martin had found his predecessor’s murdered body. Who knows what else might be lurking around the corners - or even be hidden in plain sight? 

Tim, however, seems perfectly at ease, all things considered. He reaches up to scratch at the wounds on his face made by one of the many worms that had been present in the archives - which are now dark, ugly scabs surrounded by shiny, puckered skin that are bound to leave nasty scars if he keeps picking at them - and purses his lips in thought. “So,” he asks, “What do you want me to do?”

Jon frowns. “I need you to keep an eye out,” he says simply. Tim raises an eyebrow.

“...That’s it?”

“Look, Tim, Elias said that-” Jon starts, before realising his voice has raised slightly. He lets out a sigh, pushing his glasses onto the top of his head and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I was told that the woman in the statement, this  _ Madga _ , might be… paying Elias a visit. Perhaps to make a statement, perhaps for… something else entirely.”

There’s silence for a few seconds before Tim speaks again, the explanation apparently doing nothing to alleviate his confusion. “And we need to keep an eye out for her… why, exactly?”

Jon clenches his jaw, inhaling sharply. There’s nothing particularly pointed about Tim’s tone of voice, but the question itself… He doesn’t trust him. It seems painfully obvious - that he’s hiding…  _ something  _ \- but right now the last thing he should do is throw out any accusations. Especially without proof. The O’Reilly statement is the top priority right now, he tells himself, sliding his glasses back onto his nose and shrugging.

“Tim,” he tells him, “Elias seems to think Magda is… dangerous. He explicitly told me not to actively seek her out.”

“And you’re going to listen to him?”

“... I’m undecided.”

At this, Tim’s frown turns into a smile and he sits up, his interest apparently piqued. “Let me guess,” he says, “You need my help because I’m the least likely to snitch?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Tim lets out a laugh, and for a moment Jon feels himself relax. Tim’s laugh is a warm, familiar sound, and the action makes the skin around his eyes crease and dimples appear on either cheek. Jon watches with a smile, and for a moment any sort of paranoia or suspicion against his friend disappears entirely. The moment is brief, however: a sudden rush of relief that’s over almost as quickly as it happens. He clears his throat, scratching at one of the worm-wounds marking his own neck.

“So… is that a yes, Tim?”

Tim nods, running a hand through his hair. “Sure,” he says, “It’s… reassuring _ , _ you know? Running around behind Elias’ back for statements, it’s just… a bit of normalcy for once.”

It’s Jon’s turn to laugh now, a soft chuckle leaving his lips as he slides his hands into his jacket pockets. Normalcy?  _ Now? _ While Tim’s right that investigating statements behind Elias’ back is definitely something he did before Prentiss’ attack, it feels strange to call it normal.

No, no strange.  _ Wrong.  _

Jon smiles at him all the same, refusing to let Tim notice how he’s watching him, double checking how his line of sight flicks from his boss to his coffee to his phone, as if he’s desperate for him to leave. It feels strange, keeping an eye on his every move. If Jon weren’t so desperate to justify his own paranoia, his own fear, he might even say it feels wrong. But he won’t, he  _ can’t _ , and he swallows down the lump in his throat before he speaks again.

“You’re right,” he lies, “It’s nice to be at least  _ somewhat  _ back to normal. I’ll catch up with you later, Tim.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, and… be careful.”

Tim gives him a friendly salute and wink, leaning back in his chair and picking up his coffee as he begins to leave. “Will do, Boss,” he grins, “Let me know if anything comes up.”

Jon nods, but the twisting in his stomach stops him from giving a proper answer. He can only bring himself to release the breath he’s been holding once he’s inside his office, door shut tight and locked up behind him. There’s a mug of tea on his desk, untouched and stone cold by now, put there by Martin several hours ago and left alone out of fear that something other than tea might be in there. He finds himself staring into the brown liquid, something akin to guilt bubbling up inside him.

He picks up the tea, his grip on the handle far too tight. Then he sighs, gives in, and drinks it. 

It’s cold, of course, and a little too sweet for his liking. But it’s tea - plain and simple. It doesn’t taste strange, or bitter, or having a texture that tells him that anything is in there other than a once-hot beverage. Jon feels his shoulders relax, his gamble paid off, sitting down at his desk with only the bad - but completely harmless - aftertaste of cold tea in his mouth.

He records a statement that afternoon, regarding a band whose music is so bad it causes those who listen to turn to violence. He feels sick after, like something, somewhere, is looming over him. Its eyes are fixed on him, cruel and unblinking, watching him from every angle like a sick voyeur. For the first time in a while, Jon misses smoking, misses the familiar presence of a cigarette between his lips and the burning of the smoke in the back of his throat.

He clenches his fist, composes himself, then picks up his notes and turns on the tape recorder once again.

\--

For once, Jon leaves when his shift ends at five, rather than staying on afterwards to work as he used to. Sasha’s already gone by the time he’s getting ready to head home - something to do with a date with her new boyfriend - but Tim and Martin are still there, and he watches them as he leaves, jaw clenched and hands balled into fists in his pockets as he passes them. Martin tells him to have a safe journey home, and Jon can only let out a somewhat non-committal hum in agreement, worried that anything else will make his suspicion of him too obvious. 

The reception area of the institute is, as usual, mostly empty, with just a few receptionists present, taking calls and chattering amongst themselves. Jon recognises everyone - the rota of staff hasn’t changed much since he first started working in Research - save for one person, sat on a couch and smoking a cigarette as she looks quizzically up at the large portrait of Jonah Magnus that overlooks the Institute’s entrance.

Jon looks over at the reception desk, though no-one there has seemed to have noticed someone smoking indoors. He’s welcomed with the familiar smell of tobacco smoke as he approaches her, and he squashes down the urge to ask her if she has any going spare before clearing his throat to get her attention.

“Excuse me,” he says, keeping his voice firm and professionally impolite, “But you can’t smoke in here. Please go outside if you want to-”

The woman doesn’t let him finish, letting out a long, dramatic groan as she leans back into the black leather of the couch she’s sitting on. “Oh, come  _ on _ ,” she says, “I’ll only be another few minutes, I’ve just gotta pick someone up and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Jon raises an eyebrow at her tone of voice, again surprised that no-one else seems to be noticing her. She doesn’t look too out of place in the institute - her dark hair is done up in a tidy bun and her blazer and pencil skirt are both neatly pressed, like she’s just got them from a dry cleaners. Jon can only assume she’s just finished working herself, coming straight from her job to the institute… for some reason. Jon sighs and opens his mouth to continue but he’s cut off before he can.

“You… you’re the Archivist?” the woman asks him, “ _ Really?” _

Jon stiffens on that, clenching his jaw and reminding himself that he should at least  _ try  _ to be polite to her, even if it’s just to avoid attracting attention. “Yes,” he answers, “I have been for about a year… Were you expecting someone else?”

The woman nods. “Last time I checked it was some old woman,” she takes a long drag of her cigarette, crossing one leg over the other, “Only met her once, weird lady.”

For a moment Jon finds himself wondering if this woman could possibly know anything about Gertrude, if she (like everyone else) was also somehow lying to him about her involvement in his predecessor's death.

It’s ridiculous, he thinks to himself, but not impossible. Maybe his paranoia is getting the better of him, but he’d rather be a paranoid man than a dead one. 

Eventually, Jon nods, slow and wary. “Mrs Robinson is… no longer with us,” he tells her, picking his words carefully, “Did you… need to make a statement?”

The woman snorts, tapping the ashes from the end of her cigarette onto the floor. “ _ God _ , no,” she says, “I’m just waiting for Rosie - you know her?”

Jon nods.

“Well, we’re going to dinner, and if she doesn’t hurry up, we’re gonna miss our table,” she explains matter-of-factly, “Now, do you actually need anything or are you going to leave me alone, Archivist?”

“I-”

“I’ll take that as a no,” the woman cuts him off yet again, this time putting out her cigarette on the table, leaving an ugly scorch mark in the otherwise-spotless wood, “But it seems my date has  _ finally  _ decided to show her face, so I guess whatever you want will have to wait.” She gives him a smile, sickly sweet and dripping with venom, and Jon turns to see that Rosie is, in fact, making her way over, doing up her coat as she approaches. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she says, “We had a complaint and Elias had me doing all the paperwork for it-” she looks to the woman, then to Jon, and lets out a sigh. “Magda wasn’t bothering you, was she?” she asks him.

He shakes his head. “No, we were just… talking.”

“Right.” Rosie gives him a nod, a small, professional acknowledgement as a farewell, “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Have a safe journey home!”

Jon doesn’t respond, watching as the two of them make their way out of the institute building. For a moment his mind is completely blank, more as a result of confusion at what had just happened than anything else. But then realisation hits him, ploughing into him like a tonne of bricks and he realises - Rosie had called the woman Magda. 

_ Could it be…? _

In any other situation, Jon would consider it to be far too much of a coincidence for it to even be plausible; but this  _ isn’t  _ “any other situation”, and if there’s one thing Jon has been telling himself, over and over until it’s the only thing on his mind, it’s that anything is possible - and in this case, that anything is Magdalene Blaire.

Jon stands there, in the foyer of The Magnus Institute, for a good five minutes, nausea swirling in his stomach. Then, swallowing down the lump in his throat, he turns around and begins making his way up to Elias’ office.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments/kudos if u enjoyed!!


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